


a little bit of tender

by pumpkinless



Series: make me feel [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Drunkish Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Frat Boy Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Size Kink, Underage Drinking, thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 10:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14809646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinless/pseuds/pumpkinless
Summary: Shiro is a ripped frat boy. Keith is thirsty for more than vodka.





	a little bit of tender

**Author's Note:**

> as a gemini, i like to give birthday presents to myself cause i'm basically two people. woo!
> 
> title from my current big fave song, "make me feel" by janelle monáe. endless thanks to my thirst buddy @[eternal-heatstroke](http://eternal-heatstroke.tumblr.com) for helping edit & also calling me valid.
> 
> (((this fic also alludes to several sexual acts/kinks that don't actually take place, but some of them are sort of intense so pls check the notes at the end for a quick list if you're not sure--they really aren't more than mentions but ya know)))

Somehow, Pidge has an in at the Sigma Epsilon Chi frat house through her brother and got them in the door despite the fact that this appears to be an invite-only party, and Keith was definitely not invited. She’s taken up a post in the kitchen, pouring out drinks like a professional bartender. Watching her, Keith knows fear.

“Back of the line, asshole,” Pidge barks at some douchebag shouldering his way to the front. “I said,  _ back of the line,  _ or I’m cutting you off.”

Keith smirks at him as he goes, grumbling. “Can I help?”

“You?” Pidge looks at him like he’s lost his mind. Keith likes to pretend he’s her bouncer, but Pidge is a nerdy-looking girl who has a black belt in karate. She doesn’t need him. “Fuck no. You’re not even sober, I don’t need you messing with my bar.”

“Your  _ bar," _ Keith mocks, like she isn’t standing at some shitty island counter top brandishing only bottom shelf liquor. Keith is currently drinking—he squints at the pink label on the bottle in Pidge’s hands—raspberry New Amsterdam vodka. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever tasted since Pidge did something to it with a bottle of juice, but he’s seen how little that stuff goes for at the liquor store and it’s nothing to write home about.

“You either sit back and watch or you leave,” Pidge says over her shoulder. The shot glass she started out using as a measuring tool has fallen by the wayside in favor of pouring liquor into solo cups by eyeballing it, portion sizes depending on how polite the person is requesting a drink. 

When Pidge isn’t looking, Keith snatches the bottle up and pours a shot. He takes it without blinking.

“This is fucking terrible,” he tells Pidge.

“They keep the good stuff locked up for parties,” she says with an eyeroll. The kitchen is slightly quieter than the hallway and living room, enough that they can hear each other yell from a few feet away. “Give me that back.”

Keith lets her snatch the vodka out of his hand as he surveys the line. There are five people waiting, a couple and three women slapping at each others’ backs as they laugh raucously over something on the screen of a phone. They look like fun, and he suspects Pidge is going to pour out an extra shot for the one on the left.

He’s busy squinting at the one in the middle to figure out the color of her hair—is that neon yellow, or are the lights weird?—when someone crowds into his space and blocks his vision.

“What the fu—” Keith starts, but stops. He registers what his eyes are seeing.

The man in front of him—and, wow, okay, he is  _ definitely _ a man—has the broadest shoulders Keith has ever seen in real life, and the cut off sleeves of his shirt bare his thick biceps, blessing the entire world with their existence. Keith’s gaze dips down, down, and discovers it should be illegal to have calves that look that good in shitty basketball shorts. He probably doesn’t even play basketball, but Keith would watch him try to shoot a basket or forty any day of the week, just to stare at the flex of his muscles and see him get sweaty chasing down the ball.

“Hey,” the guy says, and Keith’s eyes snap up to his face just in time to catch a hint of a devastating grin. His  _ jawline. _ Fuck.

A hand lands casually on his knee. The man leans in—oh god, what is he doing? Keith doesn’t have time to panic, though, because he’s too busy thinking  _ yes make out with me _ to notice the man reach around him to open the kitchen cabinet. Slowly, the hand slides up his thigh and squeezes, just below the crease of his hip. Keith is cut through with the burning need to get that hand sliding up and  _ in. _

He’s so close.

Keith never knew frat boys could be so hot. Tall  _ and _ muscular, all in one big, big package. He likes tall men, likes how they look when he looks up at them with his hands on their chests. But this one, though—this one, that Keith has to tip his chin up to look at his face so their gazes stay locked together while Keith is already sitting on a counter top, is practically twice as wide as Keith in every possible way. He could definitely take Keith up against a wall and keep him pinned there for ages. 

Well. This one is just what he needs.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the guy says, closing the cabinet door. Keith can’t even glance over to see what he grabbed because he’s too busy staring at that mouth. Unconsciously, he leans closer—there’s nothing actually stopping him from making out with the hottest stranger he’s ever seen after exactly four words were exchanged. He just needs—

Disappointment comes swiftly. The hand on his thigh squeezes once more—and  _ oh, _ that’s so much more of Keith’s inner thigh than it was last time, shit—and then he’s pulling away, slow, gaze smoldering until he slides away into the crowd.

_ Smoldering. _ Holy fuck, Keith needs to get a handle on his inner teen vampire novel real quick.

Keith stares after him in shock. “Pidge,” he croaks, and has to clear his throat and swallow before he tries again. “Pidge, I gotta go.”

She whirls around, rum sloshing out of the glass in her hand and splattering the ugly linoleum. “You said you would stay for the party.”

“I'm not trying to leave!” Keith says. “But I—did you see that man?” God, and he's really a  _ man, _ with a body like that. Keith wants to beg that man to let him lick his body from head to toe.

“Oh,” Pidge says, and her anger turns into a sly smirk. “Him?”

“You know him,” Keith says, picking up on that tone and swiveling his head toward her.

“Yeah, I know him,” she says, turning back to her bar reign of terror. “Well, in that case, by all means. Shoo.”

Okay then.

Keith steadies himself on the counter as he hops down—he definitely has had more alcohol than he really planned for tonight, but that’s not a deal breaker. This is a frat party, and Keith is pretty sure being drunk is going to help him get where he wants to go tonight.

To a bed. Underneath so many muscles.

***

The moment Keith sidles out into the backyard on his quest, he locks eyes with his prey and gets a beautiful smirk in return. Keith tries to return it with a cool stare, but his face is red from vodka and getting redder from the fact that the man has taken off his shirt and it’s abundantly clear now just how much time he spends in the gym every day. 

Keith slowly approaches the edge of the porch, barely noticing the group of drunk, chanting frat bros standing in a cluster just off the stairs, watching someone do something in the middle of their circle. That’s not on Keith’s radar.

“Hey again,” the man says, approaching where Keith leans on the porch railing, looking down on the yard. His smile is devastating, like the obscene lines of his neck when he stretches his head up to look Keith in the eye. He probably doesn’t mean for every thing he does to be so attractive, but that’s the sort of thing that just happens when you look like that. 

“What’s your name?” Keith asks. He crosses his arms and props them on the porch railing.

“I’m Shiro.” He cocks his head to the side. “You’re Keith. Pidge’s friend, right?”

Keith nods, too drunk to really care that Shiro somehow knows him, and Pidge, and probably her brother too. Also not on his radar.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Uh,” Keith says, trying to figure out an answer that isn’t  _ I was thirsty. _ “Stars. Stargazing.”

“It’s pretty cloudy tonight,” Shiro says, tipping his head back to look straight up, distracting Keith with his collarbone. “You do a lot of stargazing?”

“Hmm,” Keith answers, noncommittal. “What are  _ you _ doing out here?”

“Waiting my turn.”

“For what?” Keith asks. All he gets, though, is a wink from Shiro as a cheer goes up from the crowd of people by the stairs and he walks over to join them. What happens next is devastating.

_ That’s not hot, _ Keith tells himself firmly. There’s nothing hot about a dude wearing no shirt and a backwards hat shotgunning a beer while ten other idiots wearing the same thing in different, uglier colors cheer him on. 

When the beer is gone, his hand curls in and the metal can crunches into a ball. He throws it onto the ground and catches Keith’s eye with his fists raised in the air in triumph.

Keith sways a little, but only because he’s drunk. Really.

“Why haven’t I seen you at one of these parties before?” Shiro asks once he makes his way over to Keith. The fact that he came back is giving Keith far more hope than is appropriate, and as Shiro leans on the railing of the porch, his fingers brush Keith’s arm, sending electricity dancing over his skin. 

Leaning closer to him, Keith says, “Not really my scene.”

Shiro comes even closer. His hand closes over Keith’s wrist, warm and gentle. “Mine either. Wanna get out of here?”

Keith—he isn’t easy, honestly. But those words coming out of Shiro’s mouth—his beautiful,  _ beautiful _ mouth—is really all he needs.

***

_ You’re so fucking hot, _ Keith thinks. He wants to say it out loud, but Shiro is pressing him up against the wall and absolutely ravaging his mouth, and Keith doesn’t want to part long enough for him to be able to say it. This is so much better than some half-assed conversation.

Shiro is the one who breaks the kiss, but all he says is, “ _ "Fuck." _

_ Please, _ Keith wants to whimper, but he’s panting so hard from Shiro’s mouth on his jawline that it never quite seems to come out.

Shiro bites down just below his ear, and the whimper comes out anyway, wordless.

They haven’t even moved from the porch yet.

Shiro sucks at his skin, mouth digging deeper until Keith can hardly breathe, and then he pulls away to slide his lips over Keith’s again, hungry and thrilling. Keith’s hands clutch ineffectually at his shoulders, incensed by the feeling of a hot, hungry mouth against his and the hardness of his body. It’s killing Keith, to feel this and want it so much but to be unable to make his brain do anything that moves him along. He could just kiss Shiro forever, it seems, and be more than okay with that.

Shiro breaks away first, and Keith chases his mouth, eyes still closed and body singing out for him.

“Want to go upstairs to my room?” Shiro pants, his eyes black with desire and lips shiny with spit. Keith wants him more than he’s ever wanted anyone in his life, and it’s absurd.

“Yeah,” he says. As long as Shiro looks at him like that, he’ll never be able to say no.

So Shiro hauls him upstairs, hands at Keith’s hips, sides, straying dangerously close to his ass—dangerous not because Keith doesn’t want them there, but because he wants them there so  _ much _ and he doesn’t know that they would make it all the way upstairs if Shiro staked his claim in the hallway between the outdoors and stairs.

As it is, at the top of the stairs, Keith shoves him against the wall because he can’t handle any more of this. He kisses Shiro fiercely, wet and open with his hands sliding up Shiro’s unrealistically defined chest. Everything about him calls to Keith, from his silly (but still somehow way too attractive) shock of white hair to his ridiculous abs to his smile when he likes something that Keith says. There’s no stopping Keith now, not when he has a man like this in front of him: so perfectly his type and just as willing to let Keith push him up against a wall as he is willing to push Keith up against a wall. This is what equal relationships are based on, Keith thinks faintly.

Their mouths don’t part, but somehow Shiro hauls him a few steps farther down the hall and finally into a dark bedroom. The darkness is perfect, suggestive and hedonistic with nothing but the moonlight pouring through the open curtains, and before Keith knows it, he has one leg wrapped around Shiro and is going for a second, hauling himself up like he doesn’t know the meaning of taking it slow.

Shiro certainly doesn’t seem to mind. His big hands grab Keith’s thighs, pulling him up just that little bit higher as he crushes in closer, well and truly trapping Keith against the wall. Keith’s breath stutters into Shiro’s mouth.

“You’re so hot,” Shiro breathes against his lips. “Saw you and I just wanted to—” 

His mouth is devastating, tongue dipping inside Keith’s in the dirtiest slide and making his entire body throb with desire.

“You should do it,” Keith pants once he gets his voice back. “Whatever you want, please,  _ please _ , I—”

Shiro growls and kisses Keith into silence, full of teeth, which just makes Keith want him even more, want everything that Shiro has filling him up and making him overflow with need. Keith’s hands drag over the breadth of Shiro’s shoulders, over the hard planes of muscle in his back, and the thickness of his biceps just below the jut of his shoulder. Touching him is intoxicating in its own way, completely encompassing, so much so that Keith can’t concentrate on anything else.

“Anything I want?” Shiro asks. He bites Keith’s jaw, making Keith cry out.

_ "Yes," _ he hisses. His fingernails claw at Shiro’s bare back, uncaring.

“Will you let me fuck you?” Shiro asks, almost polite. “Let me throw you onto my bed and open you up until you’re  _ crying, _ fuck, I bet you’re so pretty when you’re desperate, baby, just let me.”

Keith keens, the noise unfamiliar coming out of his throat but so right passing his lips. It’s everything he wanted. He grips one hand in Shiro’s hair, not to guide him but just to ground himself, uncertain that he can handle this without losing it.

“Fuck me,” he says, heels digging into the small of Shiro’s back as he tries to grind his hips against Shiro’s lower belly, right where his cock is confined in his shorts but pressed into what could be the dip between Shiro’s abs. “I want you to fuck me, I swear to god if you don’t I’ll—”

“That is the last thing you have to worry about.”

Suddenly, Keith is spinning, adrift, and then he’s flat on his back on the bed, staring up at Shiro in shock and panting hard, eyes wide. He’s not certain what just happened, but he knows he wants it to happen to him again.

Shiro looks beautiful in the moonlight.

Shiro’s weight on top of him is perfect, pressing him into the bed in the best way, reminding Keith that there’s a higher purpose to his life, and it’s underneath a man like Shiro.

“How are you so  _ hot," _ Keith breathes, fingers slipping on Shiro’s skin as he tries to pull him down even closer.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Shiro’s hands push up underneath Keith’s shirt, rucking it up to his collar and then sliding back down hungrily. Keith’s chest heaves as he stares down at Shiro’s hands and just how fucking big they are, how much they seem to dwarf Keith in comparison. He’s no twig, but with Shiro next to him, Keith feels deliciously small, smaller than any man has ever made him feel.

Is it too much to hope that Shiro’s cock is as thick as the rest of him?

“You’re wearing too many clothes for such a hot guy laying in my bed,” Shiro whispers as he urges Keith up.

“Guess I can take the jacket off.” Keith captures Shiro’s mouth again as he starts to push his jacket off his shoulders, tangling the sleeves in his haste to free himself and throwing it down to the ground, careless of the leather. Shiro helps him out of his t-shirt, eyes raking down Keith’s body like a starving man. That look sends a rush of power coursing through Keith, the kind of thing he’s not used to feeling but wants to know more of, because a man like Shiro looking at him like that when they’re about to get down is—well. It’s the kind of thing that doesn’t happen to Keith every day.

Shiro’s kisses are teasing, taunting, like he’s goading Keith into doing something dirtier than tongues dipping shallowly into each others’ mouths. His smooth skin is luxurious under Keith’s fingertips, all that power coiled in muscles that just make Keith drool.

With a bitten off cry, Keith finally shoves Shiro back and over, climbing on top of him in the same move so there can be no mistaking what’s going on here. The bed is small but he makes it work, his kisses turn fervent, feverish, giving Shiro what he was begging for but refusing to let him touch Keith. He pins Shiro’s wrists to the bed with his hands, and it’s a feat—Shiro’s biceps don’t lie, but Keith has the better leverage right now and the stubbornness to back it up. Shiro isn’t going anywhere.

Keith mouths his way to Shiro’s jawline and scrapes his teeth over the sharp line of it—Shiro whimpers, actually whimpers, and he strains so hard against Keith’s hold that he almost breaks it.

“Stay,” Keith mumbles, lips brushing Shiro’s ear, and he keeps making his way down, tracing the long column of his neck to the thick muscles extending from either side to the collarbone. Keith remembers the name of that muscle from high school health class— _ trapezius _ —and he remembers realizing that all his staring at that particular muscle group wasn’t about teenage envy or bodybuilding at all. Now, he  licks one and bites his way across Shiro’s collarbone to the other, high on the clean, sweat-sharp taste of skin and the hitched moans falling from Shiro’s lips, quiet like he doesn’t want Keith to hear. That’s okay, that will change.

Shiro goes limp when Keith finally drags the flat of his tongue across Shiro’s nipple, slow and pleased, reveling in the sensation of Shiro stilling so violently underneath him.

“You’re fucking mean,” Shiro gasps finally. His fingers clench and unclench into fists rapidly, like he’s not sure what to do with them. “You never said you would be  _ mean." _

“You think this is mean?” Keith says. “You’ve got another thing coming.”

Regrettably, Keith has to let go of Shiro’s wrists now in order to support himself as he dips even lower down, but there’s something about Shiro’s flat stomach and the jut of his hip bones that just calls to Keith, and he can’t ignore that. For his own mental health’s sake, he  _ won’t  _ ignore that, not when Shiro is willingly laid out in front of him.

“You just going to torture me all night?”

Keith eyes him for a moment and then smirks, kissing just to the side of Shiro’s belly button. “You would like it if I did.”

“You’re very confident.”

Keith is, he supposes, turning back to his task. Shiro strikes him as the sort of boy who's into being worshiped a little, or maybe Keith is just projecting his desire to worship. Whatever; it doesn't matter. Shiro's body is, frankly, a work of art, and right now Keith has a front row view to all of it.

He digs his teeth in gently to the skin of Shiro's stomach, and muscles ripple around him. It's so overwhelming to look at that Keith has to close his eyes. He wants everything, and he wants it right now.

When his fingers finally land on the waistband of Shiro's shorts, it takes him a minute to fumble a grip on them because he's busy praying to every deity out there that what's inside meets his hopes. His very, very proportional hopes.

“You look so good down there,” Shiro says, all raw, unfiltered honesty. 

“I'll look better when I'm choking on your dick,” Keith says. He means it matter of factly, not as dirty talk, but Shiro's eyes still practically bug out of his head. 

“Oh,” Shiro says, voice faint. Like he thought Keith was just playing around here.

Instead of teasing, Keith nudges his hand against the obvious bulge underneath the fabric, deliberate, and drags a thumb just to the side of it while maintaining all eye contact. Shiro visibly swallows as he reaches down to card through Keith's hair and push his bangs out of his eyes. A new sense of determination falls over Shiro then—something about the set of his jaw or the slant of his brow changes, imperceptible but enough to send a pleased shiver down Keith's spine.

“Keep going,” Shiro whispers. Startled back into himself, Keith tugs Shiro's shorts and underwear down. Obligingly, Shiro lifts his hips to help, and his stomach tenses up again in the most distracting way right before Keith's eyes.

Shiro's cock is beautiful and every bit as hefty as Keith had hoped. It's almost intimidating.

He spends too long staring at it. “You’re just going to look?” Shiro asks. He's clearly goading Keith, but that doesn't stop Keith from falling for it.

“Of course I’m not,” be snaps, and without anymore preamble, Keith licks up the length of Shiro's cock and tastes the tiny bead of wetness at the tip. He's not one to back down from a challenge, especially not one that he threw down the gauntlet for first.

Shiro props himself up on his elbows to watch Keith work his way down, lips closing velvet smooth around the head of Shiro's cock and dipping farther and farther down. He doesn't try to look up at Shiro's face, doesn't need that neck ache, but he appreciates the way Shiro's breath grows stuttered.

It isn't long before the head of Shiro's cock is bumping against the back of his throat, but it's not  _ enough _ —Keith needs more cock like he needs air right now.

So he wraps two fingers loosely around the base, just to keep it steady, and forces his head to go farther down. Shocked, Shiro's hips twitch upwards—a move that normally would be so minute but like this sends Keith spiralling. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes as he chokes and pulls back, sliding his mouth all the way off until it's only connected by a single line of spit. He looks up at Shiro then and meets fire.

“Fuck, baby,” Shiro hisses, eyes all pupil, “I wanna see you do that again.”

Keith can't resist that and lets Shiro urge him back down, dick sliding easier inside him now that he's done it once. He’s so hot inside Keith, spearing him open and filling him up, the way Keith starts to crave when he hasn’t gotten laid in a while, except he doesn’t think he’s even slept with someone whose cock felt as perfect as Shiro’s. He groans, bobbing his head up and down, imagining how Shiro is going to feel fucking him, using every single one of those ridiculous muscles to drive inside and give it to Keith the way he needs.

“God, you really look  _ so _ good down there.” Shiro’s fingers trace along Keith’s jaw, too light and teasing by far. Keith wants Shiro to grab his hair, hold him down, but maybe that’s too much for one night. Not yet, not today. “Fuck, yeah.”

Keith sucks, too sloppy and wet, but the way Shiro’s thighs tense up underneath his hands makes him think that Shiro is into it. There’s spit everywhere, sort of gross, but it makes Keith feel filthy in the best way, like whatever happens to him next can only mess him up more. His hands pet over the soft hair on Shiro’s thighs, up to the coarser hair at the crease of them, and wrap around Shiro’s cock at the base, touching just gently enough to keep it still as Keith chokes himself down again. Shiro mutters more words Keith can’t hear, bitten off swear words and broken noises. Keith wishes he could see the look on his face.

Whenever the last time Keith got laid was, it was clearly too long ago, because right now blowing some dude he just met is the hottest thing that's ever happened to him.

He pulls off Shiro's dick with a gasp, his face flushed and breath rushing in and out in a fit of desperation. Hands tightening, he strokes in apology for needing a break, but Shiro doesn't seem to care—he twists his fingers deeper in Keith's hair but doesn't try to push him back down, just sighs and shifts his hips into Keith's touch. He's a considerate lover.

Shiro's voice rumbles through his chest. “You should come back up here.” 

“What if I like it down here?”

Suddenly, Shiro’s grip turns fierce, and as he sits up, he pulls Keith to meet him halfway, crushing their mouths together without a care for the spit sliding down Keith’s chin or where his mouth had just been. “You look so good,” he says, “I want to look at you when I fuck you, see your face when I get my cock inside you.” He kisses Keith, savage. “I’m gonna make you feel better than anyone’s ever made you feel.”

It’s so . . . cheesy, really, and overdone, hearing Shiro say that, but inexplicably it stokes the fire building inside Keith to hear his promises. He just sounds so hot, like his voice is coming from somewhere much deeper than his throat. Keith has a thing for a nice, rough voice, and Shiro can say whatever he wants to him.

“Promise?” Keith says after a too long-beat of them staring into each other’s eyes, foreheads touching.

Shiro doesn’t answer. Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks up, looking for all the world exactly like the frat boy who just shotgunned a beer in the middle of a circle of people chanting his name. In a kinder world, Keith would be able to say that doesn’t turn him on. 

The first touch of Shiro’s fingers to his ass strikes Keith as strange, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s never slept with a man who was so confident about exactly what he was doing down there. It makes him wonder how Shiro got that good, and he asks, trying to be smart and coy, and all Shiro has to answer is a low, “I’ve had a lot of practice alone, since I got my own room here.” He winks suggestively, confirming something Keith isn’t sure he can think about right now without ending this show way too soon.

Shiro’s thick fingers open Keith up with far more finesse than expected, stretching him until he wants to take charge again and slam himself on Shiro’s dick, everything else be damned.

“Come on,” Keith says—whines, really, hiking a leg up higher to convince Shiro.

“But I was gonna—”

“Nope,” Keith says, pushing at Shiro’s shoulder until he pulls out, reluctance all over his face, but Keith knows his body well enough to know what he can take. “Come on, I  _ want it, _ Shiro, please.” He bites at his bottom lip as Shiro looks up at him, knows what it does to guys when they see that because Keith isn’t blind. It works, gets Shiro scrambling for the condom and leaning over Keith with his ridiculously beautiful eyes and his thick shoulders.

“Ready?” Shiro asks, breathless.

Keith nods. “Go slow.”

He has to close his eyes as Shiro pushes in, closing them against the stretch and Shiro’s searching gaze. The first move is always just this side of too much until his body readjusts and learns to breathe around it, and his mouth falls open in a tiny gasp. God, Keith loves this, could spend all his time feeling it and never get tired of it.

“So good,” he chokes out as Shiro slows to a halt, unwilling to press any deeper. Keith kicks up a leg and locks it around Shiro’s hips, heel digging into his ass and encouraging him.

“Fuck,” Shiro whispers. He pulls back just to rock back in, a little deeper, a little harder. Keith begs him for more because Shiro’s cock feels delicious inside of him, even thicker than it looks, and because he needs to know what Shiro can do.

Is this what a religious experience is like? A hot man bending you in half over a bed and finally letting loose because he’s never gonna see you again so the two of you might as well go for it?

Keith is a convert.

“Fuck,” Shiro says, panting, forehead shiny with sweat. His hips stutter inside Keith, and he stares down like he's also having a come to Jesus moment. “Please tell me I can have your number after this.”

Keith's mouth drops open without his permission, and he disguises it as a moan as Shiro’s cock hits him in a beautiful place. “Convince me,” Keith says, because that sort of ruins the whole one night stand thing, “and maybe I will.”

A newly determined look falls over Shiro's face, and the slick slide of his cock fucking into Keith somehow becomes even smoother and more tightly controlled. Shiro slides one hand underneath the small of Keith's back and  _ lifts,  _ just slightly. It changes the whole game, somehow, making Keith's whole body feel a way he didn't know bodies were able to feel.

He gapes, soundless, eyes glazed and staring somewhere over Shiro's shoulder with no thoughts in his mind. 

Keith has never been fucked so good in his life. He fears, then, that he might never be again, and suddenly he's clinging to Shiro like he might run away and take this feeling with him. That's not even an option right now; Keith's fingers scrabble at Shiro's shoulders in desperation.

“Is this—this good enough for your number?” Shiro pants, each word stuttering out of his throat with his breath

Soundlessly, Keith mouths the words  _ shut up. _ He can’t come to the phone right now. Shiro’s hips slow into a deep grind, and Keith loses himself and snarls, digging his nails into Shiro’s shoulder and dragging them down to his ass as a reprimand. It doesn’t feel bad, none of this does, but it’s not what he wants, it’s not hard and fast and so,  _ so— _

“Answer me,” Shiro says, doing it again. He’s shy of Keith’s prostate on purpose, Keith knows.

Keith starts to say the word  _ I _ and loses it on a long  _ ah _ instead. 

He can’t make his mouth work.

“Tell me,” Shiro whispers, straight into that spot behind Keith’s ear that makes him melt. He doesn’t  _ slap _ Keith’s ass, quite, but his palm smacks down hard and grabs him, digging into his skin and holding him in place for Shiro to fuck into.

Finally, Keith manages to slur out, “Not yet.”

“You’re teasing me, baby,” Shiro says, and it’s the  _ baby _ that kills Keith, sets him on fire.

“You want—want teasing?” Keith asks. That was a challenge, basically, begging Keith to show him what teasing really is. Shiro has been saying shit like that all night, and it’s time to set him straight.  _ "Teasing _ is telling you that next—next time I see you, you’re gonna bend yourself over this bed and show me while you open yourself up, and  _ beg _ me to fuck you better than anyone you’ve ever had, and—and—”

“And what?” Shiro pants, strained, open mouth graceless on Keith’s neck. “Please—”

“And,” Keith says, grasping at straws, “and maybe if you’re good, put on enough of a show—”

“Oh  _ fuck," _ Shiro says.

“—yeah, a show—god, come on, fuck me harder.” Keith scratches one set of nails down Shiro’s shoulder blades and digs the other ones somewhere into the base of Shiro’s skull, pressed against the base of his buzzed hair. “Maybe then I’ll push you back down on the bed and lick it back out of you, get you sloppier than I did your dick tonight.” Shiro cries out at that and bites the side of Keith’s neck, sending pain and pleasure zipping through him, tantalizing with possibility.

“You like that? Like when I tell you what I’m gonna do to you?” Keith pants. He doesn’t know where this coherency or this courage came from—maybe it’s the alcohol still lingering in his veins or just the power of Shiro’s cock inside of him, wrecking his filter. “Fuck, or—maybe instead I’ll have you fuck me, and sit on your face, make you clean me up afterward, holy—”

Shiro freezes for a split second. Alarm sings through Keith for the time it takes between that and feeling the way Shiro’s hips stutter into him, desperately trying to grind deeper and deeper inside.

“Holy—” Shiro trails off into a groan, head dropping and shoulders relaxing as his hips roll lazily into Keith, who’s already too keyed up. All he really needs is—

A mouth, apparently. Shiro moves fast; one second he has Keith’s legs hiked up around his waist and the next he’s sliding two fingers inside him and swallowing down his cock like he’s ravenous. Keith, in turn, shoots off like some kind of teenager, but he can’t even feel embarrassed—after what might very well be the best sex of his life, it feels justified to be put through this and lose it completely in the end.

Afterward, they stare up at the ceiling together—partly in shock, if Keith is honest. It’s hard to lay side by side on Shiro’s twin bed, but they make it work in the interest of needing a moment ostensibly to themselves. Keith sure as hell can’t make eye contact right now, not while he processes.

He closes his eyes instead and takes stock. He’s definitely not drunk anymore, no pleasant buzz lingering in his blood. His ass feels like it’s going to hurt tomorrow, but probably not until he tries to get out of bed in the morning. Absently, Keith presses two fingers into the spot on his neck that stings, right where Shiro’s mouth was buried just before his lips pulled back in a soundless scream and he came hard. 

“So is that a yes to your number?”

**Author's Note:**

> (((mentioned: choking, breathplay, unprotected sex, rimming/come eating, facesitting, author describes various body parts of shiro as 'thick' like 15 times)))
> 
> this wasn't supposed to have a sequel, but sometimes shit happens. as we liked to say at my undergrad: depth and breadth.
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://disloyalpunk.tumblr.com)


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